from the brightest side of this star
by cydonic
Summary: There are so many things people are wrong about when it comes to death, Stiles doesn't think he could even begin correcting them all.


There are so many things people are wrong about when it comes to death, Stiles doesn't think he could even _begin_ correcting them all. All that bullshit about the celebration of life, about how they're watching from Heaven and guiding them – all that Lion King kings of the past star crap. No matter where you turn with your grief, you're just going to be met with some cliché and people assume that's it, that's fine, they've done their part in the good human comforting game and then they're free to go off and live their lives and go home and _hug their mothers_ and it's just not fucking fair.

They're all wrong, and it's not fair.

How can you celebrate a life when it's cut short so brutally? When that life was one you were barely involved in, that you would give _anything _(absolutely anything, Stiles would give decades of his own life just to spend them with his mother, alive and well and without the constant pain tainting her expression) to be a part of more, how could you celebrate it? Stiles was young (young-ish) when it happened, and all he had to show for it – to _celebrate_ – was memories tinged with the scent of antiseptic and the constant beeping that signalled someone, somewhere in the hospital needed help.

Someone in the hospital was alive to need help, and that was something, wasn't it?

So when people told him every year to celebrate her life, Stiles tried his hardest not to scoff. Because another reality of death was that people, honestly, could not care less. Everyone had their own problems, yeah, and everyone was dealing with something. Stiles never presumed to know what someone was going through just because he'd breezed through an entire year of school without anyone noticing (or bothering to deal with) the bags under his eyes and the anxious bounce of his leg and the way he lost more than a few pounds and his grades dropped and all the teacher said was that he needed to try harder.

How could he be expected to try harder when he spent as many afternoons as he could in hospital, reliving the good times that photos told him he had had when his youthful mind had failed to commit them to memory?

And really, if he is debunking every death cliché there is, he'd best get started on the Heaven one. Capital H Heaven, because it's important to a lot of people. Stiles isn't sure if that's the religion talking, because he's about as religious as a bar of soap and just as likely to wind up in a church on Sunday morning, or if people are just so desperate to pretend there's something next for them. A glorious moment in a field of flowers – on a bed of fluffy clouds – where all those they loved and lost are waiting for them.

Stiles sometimes wonders if he's too cynical to be seventeen.

Far be it from him to tell people that Jesus was a carpenter and yeah, probably a good guy to boot but certainly not the son of any God (he wasn't the messiah, just a very naughty boy who made people thousands of years later think he was). Stiles is all for freedom of speech and religion, and he can't pretend that he hasn't spent endless nights in bed crying into his pillow and dreaming of a place he can hold his mom again.

It's the reality of death that really makes people believe in Heaven. What Stiles wouldn't give, even now, to be able to lay a hand to his mother's cheek and just hold her in place with him and feel how warm and solid and _human_ she is was. Was. She was. Because she's not. Not anymore.

All that's left is a headstone and some remains that are no doubt well decomposed at this stage.

Stiles definitely thinks he's too cynical for his age, but what can he do?

For as long as he can remember, there's been a parade of people who give him these words over and over, who expect that the things they say will suddenly heal him and make him better, and it's only a credit to him that he's realised it's all a load.

His dad is the only one he can't be mad at, because he's the one going through it with him. "If you're going through Hell, keep going," his father said to him once across a tumbler of whisky and work bought home (with capital H Hell too, for equalities sake), and it was the best piece of advice Stiles ever received. Stiles doesn't take it as a promise things will improve (because they won't, ever), but just as something to keep him existing. They both need each other, and if they're going through Hell it's with held hands.

Mostly held.

Sometimes Stiles feels stupid mourning in front of his father, years later. Sometimes he feels like all it'll do is bring his dad back down again, and he's been doing so well with the eating and the drinking and the working and the _existing_, far better than Stiles does with his one actual friend and his good grades and his being entirely unnoticed by everything except supernatural beings that either want to use him or want him dead.

It's nights like those that draw Stiles out from his room. He takes his hoodie off before leaving the house, delighting in the feel of the cold wind against his numbed skin.

He walks to the cemetery, taking the long way as if to convince himself that he really doesn't want to be there but knowing his body will make the journey instinctively anyway, his input be damned. He walks by the school, ignoring the phantom figures he sees in the dark, empty windows. His breath fogs out in front of him, and there's no other soul to walk by and even confirm he's there and alive.

If a tree falls in the woods, and no one's there to hear it, is it still a stupid question to ask? The answer is yes, definitely, but the point made by it hits home at times like these. If Stiles were to just walk past the cemetery and into the woods and just lay down and let himself go, would anyone really notice?

Would his father receive much more than a "celebrate his life, it's what he would have wanted," or a, "he's watching you from above"?

Unlikely.

And it's unlikely that Stiles would do that because he has to keep going, for his father if not himself.

So he reaches the headstone, sinks to his knees, and cries.

That's the advice they should give people when someone close to them dies: "cry." That's it. People need to mourn, and those who say they don't cry are just liars and like to cry alone, and that's totally fine too. Perhaps the advice should be more "cry when you're comfortable, but let yourself cry," because that's the only thing that works for Stiles and thus is the gospel truth.

He can feel the leaf matter and sticks beneath his knees, tossed up and around in the Autumn winds, and his hands fist in the long grass. The flowers by the grave are fresh – his dad never lets them grow old and die, (because his mother never got that chance) because he was a good husband and is a good man.

The wind keeps howling around him, and Stiles feels his body crumple in on itself, as if he's found a true resting place. He rolls onto his side, back to the cold, engraved stone, and makes no effort to quieten his mournful sobs. The tears running down his face are warm, and lying on his side forces them to run into his ear which is uncomfortable – perhaps as uncomfortable as the sensation of them crawling across the near-horizontal planes of his face, and hugging to the tips of his nose and chin.

Crying is gross. It's messy and noisy and blotchy and uncomfortable but it makes him feel better.

It's not productive – nothing's ever going to bring his mom back, crying about it probably least of all – and it's not something he wants to invite people to spectate, but it's something so selfish that Stiles can indulge himself in.

He winds in closer, balling himself up on the ground, wishing more than anything in that moment (against all logical thought) that there was an afterlife, and that his mother could curl up behind him and they could lie there and just exist in that moment. Dead and alive, Schrödinger's family, existing and not existing until someone opens the box and pulls them back to reality.

There's a sensation of warmth at his back, and Stiles sobs in relief, decides that must be the last of his mind going and this is it, this is what insanity feels like, and why do people act like it's a terrible affliction again?

That is, of course, before he feels the actual solidity of something at his back and knows it can't be her. It will never again be her, and the smell of a human body is entirely unlike the phantom bubblegum scent Stiles' attributed to his mom after her death.

"Go away." Stiles curses how his voice wavers and breaks, how he sounds like the child he had been on the day she was buried, not at all like someone who had survived years without her and acted as if he was fine.

There's no response, and Stiles opens his eyes, attempting in vain to blink away the blurriness the still-flowing tears are producing – to no avail. Despite his impaired vision, Stiles can make out the shape of a person in the dim cemetery lights, and suddenly feels like his pity party for one has expanded without his consent.

Derek seems completely at ease, sitting cross-legged and watching Stiles as he drags himself upright.

He rubs at his eyes, leaving a smear of dirt in the damp on his face, before heaving a long, unsteady sigh. "What do you want?" The warmth at his back disappears abruptly, and a glance over-shoulder places it as Derek's Leather Jacket™: ideal for all your brooding needs, which makes him want to laugh in an awful way.

Stiles sticks a hand back and slides his arms into the offered warmth because he really didn't think the jacket-less approach through at all when he left the house (which was the point, but still).

"I just wanted to see that you were okay." Derek replies this time, looking for all the world as if he was telling the truth.

But there was no way. There was no way that Derek didn't want Stiles for something or other – probably broke into his house already and then had to follow the scent out to the cemetery just to get his dirty work done.

Stiles may not have voiced that thought aloud, but his derisive snort (which might have come across as trying to keep his snot mostly in his nose and not all over his face) apparently did the job.

Derek sighs, but his expression bears no malice – he smiles faintly, almost sympathetically, and _God_, Stiles does _not_ need pity from Derek Hale of all people.

"I'm clearly doing totally fine." Stiles answers, waving a hand at his entire body for emphasis. Hot mess, with less hot and more gross bodily fluids from the face. At least there's no blood, which is always more likely to appear upon Derek's involvement in his life.

Derek's smile grows at that (bastard), and he readjusts himself on the cold ground. "I can tell." He says, without any detectable sarcasm, and Stiles feels his confusion grow.

The confusion gives way to anger when Derek doesn't say anything else.

"Don't I get any stupid platitude? No, '_I'm sorry, I know how you feel_'?" Stiles asks, dirty hands balling into fists now, aching to lash out at someone and make them feel bad the same way Stiles does.

Derek's mouth quirks into something like a frown, but then resumes its unusual smile programing. "Would that make you feel any better?"

"Fuck no!"

"Then no."

Stiles can feel his heart rate jump, so – so _mad_ that Derek would come and interrupt _his_ time and not even try to be sorry about it. "You're a fucking dick." Stiles settles with, standing and kicking at the ground.

Derek gets up as he does, extending a hand. "I could never cry when Laura was around. I know how that feels. And if you want me to leave, I'll go. It's just an offer for company."

It's the nicest Derek has ever been, and Stiles can't believe how much it infuriates him. It's just as bad as all those clichés, having someone there, acting as if they're better than you, as if they _understand_ grief and are in a position to teach you about.

Before Stiles has a chance to stop and consider what he's doing, he's lurched forward and is striking at Derek's chest with his fists. Fuck that it hurts (and it really, _really_ hurts), fuck that it's not going to _achieve_ anything – Derek's probably the only asshole who's tried to make him deal with his grief who he's able to punch without someone pressing assault charges on him, and all it's doing is giving him an outlet.

There's a rhythm to the punches, a one-two break, and Stiles loses himself to the pattern. Thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud. It doesn't matter that he can feel how sore his hands will be in the morning, and until his right hand makes a suspiciously dangerous cracking noise, Derek does little to stop him.

At that point, Derek takes each of Stiles' wrists in his hands, and holds them out to the side. "You're hurting yourself."

"So?" Stiles challenges petulantly, body sagging forward. He was tired before he came out, and crying leaves behind a strange sort of exhaustion.

"If I may, I doubt your mother would have wanted to see you hurt yourself."

It's very, _very_ thin ice on which Derek walks – he must be aware of it.

And whilst Stiles _aches_ to hit him again, all he can think of is how much he _fucking hurts_.

He near face plants in Derek's chest, hands still pulled out to the side, and the tears are there again without his consent. "If she didn't want me hurt, why would she do this?"

It's being selfish again, putting himself above the feelings of others – and damned if it doesn't feel _good_. Stiles couldn't do that before, not when his dad was going through the same kind of thing he was and everyone around him was just being kind. Stiles _wants_ someone to blame, just for now, and the illness isn't physical and he can't blame his mom, he knows that, but for now he just needs _something_. He's grasping at straws, and right now that's all he has.

That, and Derek's arms enveloping him in his warmth, holding him firm.

Derek doesn't answer, and it's probably in his best interests because how _could_ you answer something like that? They stand there for too long, long enough for Stiles to wring every tear from his body, to wipe his face against Derek's shirt enough time to soak it through, and long enough for him to slowly drift off against the warm, hard pillow of Derek's chest.

"Do you want to go home?" Derek asks.

Stiles opens his eyes, and can see the pinks and purples of the rising sun over a hill. He probably has school in a few hours. Great.

Stiles wants to say no, wants to stay in the limbo of Derek's arms forever where he doesn't have to worry about feelings (including _why_ being so close to Derek Hale isn't feeling weird or unnatural or terrifying in any capacity), but he has an actual real life to return to.

Stiles nods, and lets Derek lead him to his car and drive him home.

The ride is silent, with Stiles hunched up against the passenger side window and Derek making no movement or noise or even giving a sign that he is a living, breathing human being.

Derek obviously knows where Stiles lives, given his multiple break-ins, but they're idling in his driveway far sooner than Stiles expected.

Stiles reluctantly draws his head up from the window, and looks over at Derek. He's currently being subjected to a full-body investigation via Derek's intent gaze, and something strange overcomes Derek's face for a moment.

"Take care." Derek says, which is borderline stupid cliché and if Stiles' hands weren't now seriously protesting their earlier treatment he would punch the man again.

Derek, as if sensing this, takes each of Stiles' hands in his own and squeezes them, before sitting back in his seat.

Stiles takes his time getting out of the car (refusing to acknowledge that his sore, stiff hands might play a part in that), and stumbles up to his front door. Derek's car remains in the driveway until the door is shut and locked, and Stiles is dragging himself up the stairs and into his bed.

It's only when he collapses face-first down on the mattress that he realises he still has Derek's jacket on.

When Stiles closes his eyes, he can pretend that it's Derek's arm around him – and that sends him into an easy, restful sleep.


End file.
